


Down Time

by SilverBlaze85



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Common Cold, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 21:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverBlaze85/pseuds/SilverBlaze85
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is sick with the worst cold in the history of colds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down Time

**Author's Note:**

> This is for [info]27_jaredjensen, who asked for: Sam 'n Dean. Prompt: Sam is sick with the worst cold in the history of colds. It took a bit sweetie, but hopefully this is sickly enough for you. It was hard as hells to keep it under 2K. /o\ Part of my 2011 Winter Prompt fills.

~~*^*~~

Dean _still_ wasn’t sure where Sam picked the bug up from. It had been a quiet lull, the Impala lazily meandering North again, when the cold seemed to hit Sam from nowhere. And Dean had thought of every place Sam _could_ have picked it up from. Because this shit? Wasn’t cool. The first week hadn’t been that surprising… it was just a cold.

~~*^*~~

They pulled into the first ‘interesting’ motel that caught Dean’s fancy. Another unwritten rule of the Impala: Driver picks the lodging, and Sam tended to pick boring and dull places when he got to choose. The “Jolly Pirate’s Cove” was sure to be a visual thrill-fest.

Looking back, the fact that Sam didn’t say a word about the listing pirate atop the office, but opted to sink lower into the leather, should have clued Dean in. Sure, Sam may not have visions anymore, but there were still days when he’d draw up quiet and pale, as tense and still as he had been after one struck, and Dean figured it was just that again. Especially when Sam just sort of… _collapsed_ onto the first bed he saw, sighing heavily into the polyester.

The fact that he didn’t notice the stuffed-a la-taxidermy parrot above the bed said the kid was exhausted, and Dean grinned at the theatrics, but moved a little more stealthily around the room. He got their gear in, settled the room the way they liked it best, and pondered the treads of Sam’s boots. Sam didn’t like it when Dean was on ‘his’ computer, but Dean was bored, and he was being an awesome big brother by letting the kid have his nap. A little bit of checking online, and then he’d wake Sam up for supper.

Only Sam just curled up tighter, grumbling that he wasn’t hungry. And for Sam to not be hungry made Dean’s ‘big brother alarm’ perk up and take notice. He got Sam stripped down to his tee, and then manhandled him into the other bed, smirking at the jolly pirates waving on the sheets, and tried not to worry when Sam just burrowed into the blankets and stilled.

When he heard some world-class retching coming from the bathroom at 3 am, Dean groaned and thumped his head against the pillows. Sleep was all he asked for, but he still dragged himself out the bed and staggered into the doorway, idly wondering if this was just some sort of nightmare.

In a brief pause between gagging and puking up slimy strings of bile, Sam said it wasn’t his stomach. Which Dean thought was a bit asinine, but whatever. He tried to tune out the wet sounds, heart clenching when Sam slumped after a bad one, shoulders shaking as he cried. He’d always hated vomiting, fighting it if at all possible, and according to Dean’s watch, this had been going on for about an hour now. Dean leaned over, flushing the toilet and rubbing the back of Sam’s neck. “Easy there, tiger. Just take a nice, slow breath, okay?” He kept up the string of nonsense, until Sam calmed down a little and he felt okay in stepping away to grab a washcloth. “You want a shower?” he asked as Sam wiped down his face.

Sam shook his head, making a grimace at the washcloth before folding it up and chucking it into the bathtub. “God, no. Just… sleep.” He snuffled, the tears and puking making his nose run again, and Dean bundled his brother up into his own bed, absently noting that his bed had the words of that “Yo ho ho” rum song scrawled across the sheets. He slipped in behind his brother after putting the trashcan on Sam’s side, and held his brother close, petting his stomach gently as Sam tried to get back to sleep.

~~*^*~~

“No Dean, it’s not a curse!” Sam snarled from his nest of blankets, and Dean smothered a laugh. It was either laugh or go kill a witch, because Sam was miserable, and Dean by extension was miserable.

Granted, Sam was the one sneezing, scrubbing at his eyes, congested (but it was draining down his throat, making delightful trips to go vomit) and yet still running, and constant chills. As a matter of fact, Sam had kidnapped some extra blankets from a housekeeper that felt pity on him, and hadn’t left the mess unless he direly needed to.

For the last two weeks.

Dean, on the other hand, had gone three weeks without sex, blowjobs, or even handjobs, and it sucked. Granted, don’t get him wrong… he felt bad that Sammy was so miserable and sick. But still… a man has needs, you know?

“You keep saying that, Sammy, but what natural cold lasts for two friggin weeks?”

Sam shrugged, burrowing into his blankets as he shivered again, and just looked like something the cat wouldn’t even bother bringing in. “God, you’re pitiful,” Dean said, sitting on the edge of the bed. Sam just leaned to the side until he fell into Dean’s shoulder, and Dean chuckled, wrapping an arm around him and tugging him closer. “Wanna watch a movie?”

Sam nodded lazily. “Labyrinth.” Of course. When Sam was sick, a few things were staples. Labyrinth had to play, be it DVD or movie channel, or VHS tape when they were younger. Though, the DVD and laptop option was a lot easier now. He had to have the red jello cups, not any other color, and Dean found it weird that the color was more important than the flavor. Strawberry, cherry, in one state, raspberry, but that was okay. It was still red. Weird little freak.

And the ginger ale battle. Sam didn’t like ginger ale, despised it in fact, but it was about the only thing that would settle his stomach when he was sick. So it always wound up a sly trickery, Dean buying a bottle _(always had to be a bottle)_ of ginger ale, and coaxing Sam to just drink the capful. A few minutes later, Sam would ask for just a little more, until Dean could fill a coffee cup with the amber liquid.

So, being the awesome guy that he was, Dean popped the DVD into the disk drive, and refilled the ice and soft drink in Sam’s mug, and flipped off the overhead lights, turning on the lamp instead, and cozied in the bed next to the fever-warm brother of his. Sam sighed sleepily, humming “Magic Dance” to himself as the previews played, and slumped again Dean, nuzzling in contentedly.

“Just don’t give me that cold, Sasquatch.”


End file.
